


Impulse

by Teland



Series: Impulse [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Established Relationship, Let's just say that, M/M, Sometimes Alex Has Good Ideas, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-12-05
Updated: 1998-12-05
Packaged: 2020-12-09 08:51:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: It seemed like a good idea at the time.





	Impulse

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Rye and kormantic for beta!

Alex wasn't entirely sure why he was in Walter Skinner's   
apartment. It was cold, yes. His laziness in acquiring new   
apartments in the D.C. area had resulted in his being left   
\-- albeit temporarily -- homeless when Mrs. Jerzyk's   
mislaid cigarette had left the entire tenement (including   
Mrs. Jerzyk herself) sludgy ash amid the impure January   
snows, yes. He'd wanted to be warm for a night, yes.

But Crystal City...

The last time he'd been here had been a... lark. He'd been   
shitfaced, out of work after the Brit's untimely demise,   
and out of cigarettes. In a gin-soaked haze, he'd decided   
that, ultimately, all he really needed was something to   
suck on. In retrospect, it hadn't been all that difficult   
to file said lark under "half-assed death wishes" in his   
mind, but the night itself had been... good. 

A relatively easy break-in, the heavy silence of a Skinner   
at rest, his own pounding heart louder than his progress up   
the stairs. And in the heat of late July, Skinner had been   
sleeping covered by nothing more substantial than a pair of   
old boxers. Slipping onto the bed had been an exercise in   
terrified exhilaration. Slipping the head of the cut,   
nicely-defined cock into his mouth had been an act of near-  
instinct.

His thoughts on the way to the complex had been nowhere   
near clear, but the intention had, apparently, burned   
itself on Alex's brain at some point: Get in, suck cock,   
see what happens next. 

What happened next had been a sleepy groan utterly at odds   
with the sparklingly alert expression on Skinner's face.   
Alex met the blackly ophidian gaze with a flare of   
unsatisfied want in his belly that he did his best to   
transfer into the restless motions of lips and tongue.

Catching the man asleep had been a good, useful move on his   
part, Alex decided. Skinner's cock was hard on his tongue,   
leaking salt and mildly gamy fluid, delicious. The   
sensation was of that needful simplicity that speaks of   
inchoate addiction and shorts out the forebrain in favor of   
sluttish, animal abandon.

Alex hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes and taken the man   
deep until he felt the broad, ungentle fingers in his hair,   
holding him still. Holding him close for the ragged thrusts   
of a Skinner in need.

It was a happy thought, and Alex hmmed his pleasure,   
slipping his hand along one lightly furred thigh, up and up   
until he could cradle the soft skin of Skinner's balls,   
roll them lightly, feel them tighten. Skinner was going to   
come in his mouth, and the only thing Alex felt about the   
prospect was the joy unique to the completion of any goal. 

"Krycek--"

The use of the name could have broken the spell, but the   
rough stretch of his throat, the throb of the other man's   
cock... it was all more than enough to keep him in that   
safe space. Keep him down and sucking. Skinner came hard   
after only a few more thrusts, and Alex pulled off just   
enough to taste, resisting the near spastic press of the   
other man's hand on the back of his skull. 

Dirty and good and when the pulses had finished, Alex   
dutifully lapped away those few drops that had escaped his   
greedy mouth, then rested his forehead lightly in the   
hollow of Skinner's pelvis. A few moments of harsh   
breathing on both their parts and then Alex became aware   
that the other man's hand had never quite left when the   
fist tightened in his hair and hauled his head upright.

"What the hell are you doing here, Krycek?"

"Sucking your cock."

"I hope you don't think this means--"

"I got what I wanted. Just let me go and I'll be out of   
your... hair."

Skinner's expression was bemused through the satiation and   
basic bulldog anger. He seemed puzzled as to whether he   
should take the opportunity to ask more questions or   
perhaps just punch Alex in the face while it was handy. All   
he did, though, was to shake his head briefly and release   
Alex's hair. 

Alex ran his hand over his tender scalp, not missing the   
brief shudder of the other man's thigh as the cuff of his   
jacket ran over it, and turned to leave without another   
word. All the way downstairs he could feel Skinner   
listening for trouble, and had to restrain the urge to   
graffito the walls with his dripping cock. It was   
difficult, but he made it out the door without incident. 

And then went back to the roach-infested hole of the moment   
and jerked off while trying to imagine the feel of blunt,   
impersonal fingers probing his ass. 

And then proceeded to forget all about it until just last   
night. It had always been easy to let his mind become a   
sieve. Sometimes too easy...

But there had been cold, there had been homelessness, there   
had been a vague sense of wanton mischief. But all he'd   
done upon breaking in this time was to curl up on Skinner's   
couch and wait for... whatever. When he'd awakened there'd   
been a blanket tucked loosely around his body. And a large,   
expressionless Skinner staring down at him with his arms   
crossed. 

On most people, such a profound lack of obvious emotion   
could be described as bland, or dull. Alex was willing to   
concede that unfortunate positioning may have had something   
to do with his reaction to that face, but there was a   
distinct loom to the man, a sense of impending...   
*something*... that was impossible to ignore. Merely a   
function of positioning or no, it was certainly inspiring. 

"We're having oatmeal."

Alex blinked, tried to think of an appropriate response,   
gave up on the attempt as pointless, and simply said, "OK."

And they'd had oatmeal -- Alex with an amount of cream and   
pecans that even *he'd* felt was moderately obscene -- and   
now Alex was standing in front of the kitchen counter,   
wordlessly, mindlessly, awkwardly drying the dishes   
Skinner, beside him, had washed. There were times he wished   
he understood his own impulses better, if for no other   
reason than to have something in his head beyond 'huh?' at   
times like these. 

He shrugged internally and nudged the other man lightly,   
eyeing the dried bowls pointedly. 

"Third cabinet from the left, next to the dinner plates."

That little voice was still whispering of confusion, and   
there was a distinct prickle beginning at his nape, but   
Alex carefully tucked the dishes between his arm and his   
body and put them away. At some point, the What Happens   
Next impulse had crept back and Alex was in its thrall. 

As he was placing the utensils neatly back in the drawer,   
Skinner asked,

"What are you doing here *this* time?"

"I wanted to get some sleep, and I did. Breakfast was nice,   
though." Alex was fully aware of how annoying his tone was.

"Why *here*? What makes you think you can just come here   
and... take what you want?"

Brief hesitation in the low, earthen rumble of Skinner's   
voice and that was all it took to make Alex turn just   
enough to eye the other man from beneath his lashes. "I   
take what I can get... Walter."

Skinner lowered his brows darkly for a moment, and the next   
thing Alex was aware of was a rough hand circling his   
throat, not lifting him but poised to do so. There was a   
thumb pressing with mild intent on his windpipe, and Alex   
wasn't sure whether it was the sensation or his own   
helpless cough that jolted his cock to shameless, joyful   
life. 

Alex met Skinner's gaze as steadily as he could, but was   
unable to fully resist the urge to let his vision blur   
around the edges. It wasn't that Skinner was cutting off   
his oxygen so much as he was cutting off all drives toward   
machismo. The man was obviously feeling alpha malish, and   
the best way to cope with that had *always* been a timely   
surrender. Of sorts. 

And then he was being spun to face the counter, his jeans   
pushed down to puddle around his ankles. And Skinner had   
one hand on the back of his neck and the other was pressing   
suggestively against his boxers, sliding up and down the   
crack of his ass. 

Jesus.

"So that's your philosophy, Krycek?"

"Hmmm...?" He was quite sure he sounded like an idiot, and   
sincerely hoped the way he was bucking back against the   
hand was compensating for it. 

Down went the boxers and the marble of the countertop was   
cool and intoxicating against the head of his cock. And   
Skinner's thumb never stopped teasing his entrance. 

"Take what you can get, whenever you can get it?"

It sounded pretty good to Alex. "Sounds pretty good to   
me..."

His IQ was somewhere in the vicinity of his pants but he   
just couldn't care. There was some worry about the   
roughness of the inevitable coming fuck, but he was quickly   
losing concern for such niceties. 

Skinner's hot mouth on the side of his throat, Skinner's   
other hand moving down to his waist, cruelly bypassing   
Alex's twitching cock to slide up under his sweater and   
play with his nipples. Alex moaned and twisted for more   
contact. 

"Are you always such a slut?"

It could've been, hell, probably had been intended as an   
insult. Perfect butch behavior toward those men said   
butches couldn't help but want to fuck through the nearest   
wall... but the voice was too hoarse, and the hands were   
too intent on teasing Alex's wanting flesh for him to take   
the question even remotely seriously. 

Alex snickered breathlessly and continued to writhe. "No,   
Walt, you just... just *do* something to me." Just enough   
truth to the statement to make his gut clench wonderfully,   
just enough assholery to make Walter chuckle against his   
shoulder and bite him hard.

It was precisely this sort of occasion that made it so   
*difficult* for Alex to resist his basic impulsiveness. He   
made a mental note to worry about that later, though,   
because suddenly there was slick wetness against his ass.   
Alex's knees nearly buckled at the simultaneous urges to   
giggle and moan. 

"You brought... brought *lube* to breakfast?"

The immediate response was a blunt, yet curiously gentle   
finger up his ass --

"Oh fuck--"

\-- the secondary: a low, darkly cheerful whisper in his ear   
of, "I used to be a boy scout."

It was the perfect opportunity for some mildly perverse   
commentary on the supposed nature of Walter's time in short   
pants and sashes, but all his throat seemed willing to   
provide was a series of short, stuttery groans, roughly in   
time to the fingers -- two now -- twisting and tormenting   
him.

Walter appeared to have no interest in moving on, and Alex   
began to wonder if it was his own fault. As much as he   
enjoyed being fucked with actual cocks, there was certainly   
nothing particularly inferior about skillful fingers,   
dildoes, bottles, whatever. Alex knew that, if there had   
been a mirror in front of him, he'd be assaulted with the   
sight of, well, a slut. He was working himself hard on   
Walter's fingers. 

Oblivious to the world, in motion for nothing but his own   
pleasure. Dimly, through his own haze, he could hear Walter   
whispering obscene encouragement, do it, fuck yourself,   
faster, and it was all just fine for Alex, because he was   
getting precisely what he'd wanted -- at some point. The   
fact that he couldn't pin down precisely *when* he'd   
decided that he wanted to do this, be this, for Walter was   
entirely irrelevant. 

It was happening with precise correctness, and that was all   
that mattered. Alex decided vaguely that the implementation   
of plans for vague, open-ended goals was a better idea than   
he'd previously allowed and continued to let his body do   
everything he wanted to, agreeing with everything Walter   
said through the motion of his hips and whatever wordless   
cries he could manage.

"... have to fuck you now..."

The words sank in, but Alex still whimpered a little at the   
loss of those fingers. Ached at his own need for *more*,   
tossing his head, fully aware that he looked like little   
more than a fly-maddened horse at the gate. Finally,   
finally, Alex felt the head of Walter's gloved cock pressed   
against him.

"Yes..."

That was a definite word, and he was proud of himself for   
its production. Firm hands on his hips, steadying him for   
the slow, inexorable assault on his body. Alex strained   
against the pressure, desperate to push himself fast and   
hard onto Walter's cock, but Walter wouldn't allow it. He'd   
have bruises tomorrow, and wondered if he still owned any   
jeans low-slung enough to show them off, somewhere. 

Inch by slow inch, and it occurred to him through the vivid   
mental image of a Walter straining and gasping -- he could   
hear the gasps -- that this slow torture was for no one's   
benefit but Walter's. He didn't want to come too fast, and   
that was both gratifying and annoying.

It was nice to know he was just that sexy, but, as far as   
Alex was concerned, if Walter came too fast he could just   
jerk off, secure in his well-fucked condition. Few decent   
men seemed to understand that, though, and the rest... the   
rest didn't bear deep thought. 

"Walter, please--"

Brief, painful tightening on his hipbones and then Walter   
was sinking in the rest of the way with a glide that lost   
some of its smoothness with speed. Perfect. Alex steadied   
himself on his hand and breathed deep, savoring the brief   
space of seconds he knew he'd be allowed. But Walter yanked   
him back up against his chest and held him there, slick   
hand slipping down to Alex's cock. Squeezing and pulling   
with expert strokes.

Alex cried out and let his head fall back against one broad   
shoulder, slipped his hand back to brace himself on   
Walter's thigh and began to fuck himself. Walter caught his   
rhythm and took over immediately, moving one hand back down   
to hold onto Alex's hip again while he thrust. 

Stroke, snap, and roll. These were the only things that   
moved through Alex's mind as Walter set to work. He had no   
idea what he was doing there, and he had no idea what had   
taken him so long. Walter took his mouth suddenly,   
awkwardly, and Alex sucked the man's tongue happily, moving   
his hips in practiced glides, moaning continuously.

Walter's cock was a force unto itself, a skewer, a pivot to   
some small universe of dark need and short-circuited   
rationality. It was the only home Alex had ever wanted, a   
place where responsibility, speech, anything and everything   
beyond flesh and teeth and muscle was rendered useless, if   
not entirely illegal. 

There was no room here for thought and if Alex had wanted   
to say anything at all, Walter's bite to his throat was   
more than enough warning away from such things.

A little bliss for a moment of forever, a deep thrust to   
catch Alex where he needed it most, and Walter was jerking   
his dick faster and harder in a way that spoke volumes of   
the man's own proximity to the brink. 

The shout at his ear was a shock to his system, pulling out   
an answering call of affirmation and pleasure in this, just   
this and Alex wanted their corner of reality to fold in on   
itself and pocket, create their own endless present of musk   
and sweat and shuddering wails, but instead lost himself to   
Walter's complete loss of control as he came. 

No rhythm to the thrusts beyond that of the other man's   
undoubtedly irregular heartbeat, and this, *this* was what   
Alex always craved -- the undeniable proof of his power   
over powerful men in their helpless grasps at his body, in   
their mindless orgasms. 

Always perfect, always enough, and at the mildly convulsive   
but clearly restrained last squeeze of his cock, Alex   
followed suit, screaming.

Immediately boneless, Alex nearly slumped to the floor   
before Walter caught and held him close again, shaking   
himself. They stood there for long moments of caught breath   
and shivers. Gradually, Alex became aware of the ticking of   
the kitchen clock and struggled a bit in the other man's   
grasp. Walter tightened his hold for an intriguing moment   
before letting him go. 

Alex bent dizzily to pull up his boxers and jeans, didn't   
bother with refastening them just yet. Walter just kicked   
off his own jeans, but did pull up the boxers. Alex   
indulged himself with a long look at the well-muscled   
thighs, the beautifully defined torso beneath the other   
man's tee -- hopelessly translucent in several places with   
their sweat. It probably took longer than he would've liked   
to admit to reach Walter's eyes, dark as ever and -- mostly   
\-- unreadable.

Alex licked his lips once before speaking, was rewarded   
with a lovely narrowing of the near-black gaze.

"So, Walter... did you get what you wanted?"

Slow, wicked smile and Alex was shivering again.

"I'm not through with you yet... Alex."

The new year was definitely shaping up pleasantly...

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~


End file.
